Blood Brothers: A Dark BBW Dom Billionaire Stepbrother Menage Serial (Stepbrother Billionaire Games Book 2)

BLOOD BROTHERS

The Billionaire Stepbrothers’ Games

BETHANY WALKER

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Blood Brothers (The Billionaire Stepbrothers’ Game)

TWO STEPBROTHERS. LIMITLESS MONEY. ONE RULE: NEVER SAY NO.

I’m Galen Blood. My stepbrother and I are richer than God and sicker than the Devil. We like to play games. The kinds of games only billionaires as fucked in the head as we are can play, with global stakes. Corporations and countries fall just because we think it’s funny.

Today, our game is about HER. Eliza. The piece of trash in a leopard print skirt we dredged out of the Las Vegas gutter.

Braden thinks I can’t make her a perfect sub. That I can’t dress her up beautifully, convince everyone she’s a lady, and make her my whore in the back room.

I disagree.

And I’m going to prove it by tearing her down one piece at a time and shoving my dick inside every crevice. She’s gonna beg for my cock. She’ll begged to be fucked, and I’m going to use her, destroy her, make her
mine
.

By the time we’re done with her, she might even love me.

When she does, I’ll finally win. I’ll finally have beaten Braden. And nothing will ever be the same.

***

I’m Eliza—no last name, please. I’ve had a bad night. Actually, I’ve had a lot of bad nights. A lifetime of bad nights, one might say.

Then one bad night turned into a really strange night, where some big shot billionaire shoved me into his limousine. He says he wants to offer me a deal. He says he’ll give me everything as long as I never say no to him.

If he knew the truth about me, he wouldn’t make that offer.

So sure, I’ll take it. I’ll get what I need from him. If he gets what he wants from me in the meantime, that’s fine too.

As long as he doesn’t find out my secret.

And as long as I don’t fall in love.

Shouldn’t be too hard. This isn’t the first time I’ve been fucked.

These Blood brothers won’t know what’s hit them.

***

The name is Braden Blood. I like to play games.

More importantly, I like to get revenge.

I’ve picked a girl for my brother to use. He thinks the choice is random. He thinks that she’s just some random, faceless skank outside a club, interchangeable with any other woman we might have dug out of Las Vegas.

He doesn’t know what I know.

Nothing is random, little brother. Nothing. Not the way you want her, not the way she looks at you, and not the circumstances that led to us finding her in that gutter one night.

You think you’re going to fuck me by fucking her? You think that her love won’t destroy you?

Just wait. I’m gonna fuck you both.

Author's Note

THERE IS NOTHING sexier than when adults respect each other enough to provide clear, enthusiastic consent to their partners. Verbal communication, boundaries, and respect are the cornerstones of any healthy relationship, whether it be sexual or romantic, and even more so when BDSM becomes involved. Furthermore, protection against transmissible diseases and birth control are also an important part of healthy sexual relationships.

You will not any healthy relationships in my books.

Fiction isn’t reality. It’s fantasy.

I fantasize about having choices taken from me. I fantasize about being used, and using others. I fantasize about finding love in the darkest, sickest, most broken ways. I enjoy these fantasies on the page even though I demand respect from my partners in reality, and I hope my readers expect no less from those they share their bodies and hearts with.

But the Blood brothers don’t exist in reality.

Suspend your disbelief. Follow them down this dark rabbit hole. Imagine that you’ve lost everything and you’re trapped on the brink of destruction—and that yielding to your sickest desires is the only way you’ll find freedom.

That’s where the Blood brothers and Eliza dwell.

Fantasy. Sensuality. Darkness.

Come with us.

—Bethany

Eliza

THE MAIDS WAKE me up.

I’m alone in an unfamiliar bedroom.
His
bedroom. Galen, the billionaire who plucked me out of the gutter the night before to make a wild offer, an insane offer, the kind of offer he never would have made to me if he’d known the truth about me.

He’s not here with me right now. I’m alone with the maids: three women in traditional maid uniforms, obviously fetishized, revealing legs and breasts for the benefit of their employer’s gaze.

They help me out of bed. I don’t think that I need the help until I’m actually standing, and then I realize how sore I am in all the right ways. Sore between my legs, sore where Galen violated my ass, sore from bucking against the wall while he buried his face between my legs.

Like I said, all the right ways.

It’s nice having steady hands hold me up. They dress me in unfamiliar clothes. The stockings caress my legs as they slide up my ankles to my knees and higher. The underwear holds me tightly. It makes me think of being tied down.

Then there’s the dress. A black sheath, probably couture. I’m even more grateful for the maids when I see it. There’s no way I could do the zipper that runs all the way down the back without help.

It doesn’t quite fit me. Neither do the shoes. I wear them anyway.

The maids walk me through Galen’s apartment, and I’m still feeling a little sick from all the alcohol and drugs the night before. I didn’t eat enough for dinner. I probably should have eaten something. The floor is unsteady underneath me, the walls twisting. The doorway seems to blur.

And then sunlight.

We’re obviously still in Las Vegas. I can feel it in the bite of the sun on my exposed flesh and the way it stabs deep into my irises. It heats the top of my hair. I’m of Irish descent, so I’m practically flammable in sunlight, and there’s nothing quite as vicious as the cruel dry heat of the southern Nevada desert.

The asphalt radiates with heat. I shouldn’t be wearing thigh-highs. I’m sweaty immediately, slick inside the dress. It only takes a few steps to reach the round driveway and I’m so hot by the time I get there.

The limousine is waiting for me. Its windows are tinted too dark for me to see inside.

Even so, I know who’s waiting for me in there.

Its air conditioned embrace is a relief, even though I was only outside for a moment. I’m cold. And grateful for those stockings.

Galen Blood sits in the corner, nestled by leather, chin resting on the curve of his forefinger and thumb. He wears sunglasses. His hair falls over his forehead in arrogant line, a little too boyish to match the perfect, razor-cut lines of his charcoal suit.

There is a wall between us, putting miles between our souls even though the toes of my ill-fitting shoes are only an inch from his when I sit.

Someone shuts the door, entombing us in the limousine.

It moves.

He doesn’t speak.

“Are you taking me back?” I ask. “Back to that club? Back to…?” I can’t finish my sentence.
Are you taking me back to my old life?

He surveys me coolly. I don’t need to see his eyes to feel the way that his eyes rove over my body, reminding himself of the curves that he claimed as his the night before.

Whatever he thinks of me, he doesn’t show it on his face. He is as expressive as a mannequin showing off fine business wear down on The Strip.

“Do you want to leave me?” he asks.

No matter how calm he sounds, it’s a loaded question.

Never say no
.

That was the rule. I don’t deny him anything. Enthusiastic consent for everything, and I can have the world.

Better yet, I can have
him
.

Galen Blood. Billionaire. Celebrity. Troublemaker. Notorious.

No, I don’t want to leave him. And that’s not an answer I plan on giving him. I don’t want to know how picky he’ll be about “never say no,” so it’s better to remain silent, hands folded in my lap, eyes fixed upon my feet in a show of submission.

My body says
yes, keep me, please
.

I want him to take me now. I want him to violate me again. I want it so much that it hurts all over, and I want to throw myself across the limousine to show him with mouth and tongue exactly what I desire.

This isn’t about my desires, though. This is about his desires.

So I sit. I don’t move. I don’t talk.

Neither does he.

***

Galen

They have the store shut down before we arrive.

I don’t shop anywhere that will not cater to my every need, and one of those needs is privacy. I can close down entire shopping malls with a single phone call. I earn more money while I’m sleeping than these stores earn in a year, and they know it. They know I can pay their salaries as easily as most people tip a buck for pizza delivery.

So if I want stores closed, they’re closed.

If I want the limousine to be allowed to drive up to the back door, weaving through the fence and stopping on concrete, then I’m allowed to drive there.

And if I want to fuck my new toy in their store, I’m going to fuck my new toy in their store.

The eager shopping mall staff rings the limousine with tape and guards.

Word has somehow gotten out that I’m going shopping today. The press is already here, hoping to get a glimpse of me out in public. Every since the last game I played with Braden—a game which ended up with my name on one of the finest hotels in Dubai—new photographs of us have been selling for sums of money I’m sure that these maggots consider to be ridiculous.

They won’t get pictures of me. Not today. I might indulge them normally, but I don’t want anyone to spot my new pet. My new little fucktoy.

Eliza’s eyes are wide, terrified, as she watches the store’s security section off the limo’s space. Their bodies press against the windows to guard us. One of them is waiting with a jacket to drape over her, concealing her face from the international media.

“I thought we were just going shopping,” she says.

“We are,” I tell her.

The door opens. The perfect soundproofing on our limousine breaks.

Voices shout, cameras click, flash bulbs flare.

“Blood! Blood!”

“Over here, Galen!”

They’re trying to hold the cameras high enough to see over the guards. They won’t succeed in taking photos. My guards are better than that. I trust them to protect me, as they always do.

Still, I’m grateful when Eliza is engulfed in the jacket, escorted through a narrow pathway of protective bodies to enter the store.

I’m just behind them.

All those voices bounce off of me. They don’t penetrate my shield, much less my consciousness. None of those voices matter to me.

I’m watching what little I can see of Eliza through the protective armor of my guards. Her slender calves are marked by a seam down the back from the stockings that she wears. The dress is cut narrow around her hips and a little too loose around her waist.

The woman’s curves are ridiculous. Impossible. There shouldn’t be a woman with a body like this.

I can’t keep my hands off of her. Even now, I feel like I’m drawn to her by the force of gravity rather than by anything biological. I have to touch her. I have to be with her, to mound those curves in my hands, to squeeze her hips.

She tastes so good, her womanhood still lingers on my lips hours after I last plunged my head between her legs. The feeling of her pulse on my tongue from her femoral artery is something that I’ll never forget, even if I never went down on her again.

That’s not going to happen, of course. I’m going to fuck this woman a hundred more times. A thousand times.

She’s going to ride my face and suck my cock and I’m going to get to know every single inch of that slut’s filthy, perfect body.

For now, we’re going shopping.

A voice breaks through all the others, louder than the other reporters’.

“How do you respond to rumors that your brother was targeted by a foreign nation?”

That last question cuts through me.

I stop walking. I turn around.

My eyes fall on the person who asked.

He somehow broke through the line of guards. He’s got scraggly brown hair, big shoulders, a hunched back. His finger is snapping photos even as he looks at me over the device, eyes fixed on me, accusatory.

“Rumors say it’s the French mafia,” the reporter says.

I don’t have to order my people to take the reporter out.

They do.

Arms wrap around him, his feet lift from the ground, he kicks and shouts as he’s dragged away and the camera is wrenched from his hands.

I’m through the door with Eliza. It shuts behind us.

We are alone.

***

Eliza

He looks shaken.

Galen actually looks shaken.

Something happened out there, in that short space between the limousine and the back door of the store, that somehow penetrated his gorgeous, pristine armor.

But only for a moment.

He’s composed again so quickly that I almost wonder if I didn’t see what I thought I saw. Maybe it was my imagination.